@timthriall - plotted starter
dorian feels like he's drowning. he's walked for days, images of sorscha, beautiful, sweet, caring, sorscha flashing through his mind. one moment she's whole, smiling at him as if he's her whole world. the next, she's headless and falling, falling, falling. he's a malestrom of despair and it makes him the perfect target. stumbling into a cave, the dark void makes it impossible to see the other void lurking, waiting for someone like him to wander in. it tastes his grief and pounces. inky black furrows into dorian's mouth, up his nose and settles into the very heart of him. yes, this will be its new home. this will be how it reaches her. its little witch.
wake up, little prince. your story begins here. dorian stirs, but doesn't wake. though the voice is coaxing him to wakeness, his eyelids feel like lead, unable to open. his mouth, too, feels dry as if he's drank the entire desert, his tongue feeling like sand. "where..." his throat feels hoarse when he tries to speak, a burn spreading. he coughs to try and dislodge whatever is sticking to his throat, but it remains. stubborn. "where am i?" eyes finally open to discover he's lying on a bed, in a cottage and before him, a woman with hair like fire. she turns, and the breath sucks from him. he knows it can't be, her hair is wrong, but a sick hope fills him anyway. "sorscha?"
